


June

by juicymats



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post Game, Recovery, Time Skips, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, ndrv3 endgame spoilers, ouma centric, vaguely, virtual reality au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-18 23:06:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12398103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juicymats/pseuds/juicymats
Summary: Picking yourself off the ground, slowly.





	June

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably just incredibly ooc and incredibly self indulgent and doesnt make any sense im so sorry most of this fic is ideas that i cant properly convey and i just slapped it all into one incoherent mega ramble.
> 
> uploaded from mobile so if its weird..i am sorry about that-
> 
> i was thinking about how important the v3 kids are to each other thats it -- i wish i could do all of them but alas..i also just really like ouma ..

Seventeen.

The prime of a teenager's life, the last time they are able spend most of their time slacking off, on grades, school, and the worries of what the future holds for them. Normal things. The mudane, day to day anxieties.

Maybe, in another world, Ouma would have thought these focuses to be dull, after all, everyone seems so worried about small, petty things, compared to him. Now, as he stares into the cieling of his cramped, dirty, and pathetic excuse for an apartment, did he long for those kinds of worries. The worry of the future, the worry of falling behind in grades, and the worries of what he wanted to do with his life.

He wondered, maybe, if there was another version of him somewhere far away from here, he wondered if they were finally able to find peace. Whether it be through death or not, he wasn't sure.

At sixteen, the last thing he expected, was waking up in an unervingly stark white hospital, after feeling the sensation of dying. The very last feeling of his "life", the force of the press deforming his organs as if they were nothing more than scrap metal, crushed and squished into one tiny box made to be tossed into the rest of the world's worthless trash.

Ouma shakes himself of those pointless thoughts. There was no reason to think about something that happened a year ago. A year ago. He's seventeen. He's seventeen.

At seventeen, he could be at the movies with friends.

At seventeen, he could be studying vigorously on his next exam.

At seventeen, he could be.

He could _be_.

The silent and yet piercingly loud sound of a press snapping shut echos within his head.

 

There is no such thing as instant recovery. Thats just how it works. Results from trauma, of any kind, can't be reversed. There is no snapping back. Words, objects, places, all play a factor in resurfacing the forcedly repressed memories of one's worst moments in life.

Trauma can rule over someone's life just as easily as the mudane can rule over someone's life. Ouma isn't sure which one is worse. Then again, he thinks, he only spends his time these days going over the daily repetitive routine. Wake up. Eat scraps. Go back to sleep.

As he repeats this process day to day, he dreads that he will grow to like routine. There is nothing more boring than doing the same things over and over again. But, this is somehow easier. It is easier to wake up and pretend you don't remember dying. It is easier to wake up and pretend you didn't destroy the only chance of friends. It is easier to wake up and pretend everyone doesn't hate you.

Today is my birthday, he thinks.

Distantly, he recalls a time in his life where summer was his favorite season.

Season.

Danganronpa season 53.

The single cupcake he had bothered to prepare for himself is all over the floor, the sweet scent sickenly intruding on the usual moldy smell of the apartment he never bothered to clean anymore. The combination of the scent made his stomach twist, and a rush of images of everyone dead before the press met himself flash through his rattled mind.

After a lonely seventeenth birthday, Ouma turns in for the night.

 

×

  
He decided that he should start with the little things.

After the game, Team Danganronpa had orginally set everyone up to see seperate therapists, deciding which one would be compatible with which participant. Their matches didn't prove to be very successful. Ouma's sessions with his therapist did not last long at all, in fact, it only lasted for about a day before he bailed. They couldn't do anything. They had no idea what it was like to die and come back to life.

Being one of the last participants to wake up, he was only greeted by the cold and uncaring scientists who could not give less of a care in the world that they just put sixteen kids through an irreversible trauma that they couldn't just bounce back from. As he made his way to the entrance, ready to get out of the sickenly clean prison, someone stopped him before he stepped out. The man was silent as he handed Ouma an envelope, an envelope that he knew contained his prize for staying alive as long as he did in the game.

The memories bring a bad taste to his mouth, but he shakes his head. He's not here to dwell on pointless thoughts. Picking himself back up after leaving the hospital and living alone for about a year is easier said than done. He's not sure where this impulse came from. Why is he here? Perhaps, as he justified this to himself, that he got bored of moping around.

Ouma hadn't bothered wearing anything to hide his face. The man in front of him pathetically stutters as he recgonizes the second most popular character on the new season of Danganronpa.

"Y-Yeah, we have a cart right here for you!"

The excitement and nervousness of his voice grates on the purple haired boy, like the sound of nails scraping across a chalkboard. He ignores his annoyance in favor of pulling over the ice cream cart to him. He hands the man the amount over with ease, after all, he had all this money now, mind as well use it.

"Thaaaanks. Hey, hey, maybe try to keep eye contact the next time you talk to someone!"

The man starts at that, apologizing profusely, but his voice is already fading out as Ouma takes the cart and runs with it. It's been a while since he's gone outside, and had been searching the area for something he could do. He was antsy, he admitted. His restlessness seemed to have festered the more he stayed locked in the apartment, and he resolved to use the unexpected spring of energy for something that would occupy him.

That, was ice cream. The inspiriation had come from a nearby shore, full of people sitting along the sand, with beach towels and coolers in the summer heat. He figured something simple would start him up, unlike trying to get a job and having to properly talk to people. Though he figured his unwanted fame could land him anywhere, it wasn't right.

With the cart full of different kinds of popsicles and other frozen treats, he finds an outfit more appropriate for the sticky heat, as he only threw on the dirty sweats that sat next to bed. With a quick run to a nearby clothing store, he grabs shorts, a simple t-shirt with a logo of some namebrand, and a sun hat, of which he took partially to hide his face better, and partially because he kind of thought it looked cute.

Completing the summer look with a pair of sandals, he readies himself for the beach, the feeling of sand under his feet, which he hasn't felt in such a long time. It's a welcome change. It is...oddly refreshing. The seagulls chirping in the distance, the waves crashing along the shore, and the incoherent chattering of people blending into each other made for a surprisngly calm scene. He could allow himself a moment of peace, for just one moment.

He spends the busy beach morning selling ice cream, to adults and children alike. Anyone who recognized him curbed him slightly, but overall, he was doing something. Ouma makes a decent amount of money and tips that day, and for some reason, his chest feels just a bit lighter, if only for a little bit. He wonders why.

  
Two weeks of working his vendor job, the exhausted boy decides to invest in his own interests on the internet. Social media was too much of a mess for him, as many obsessive Danganronpa fans have swarmed all his accounts, eagerly waiting for a response, or any activity at all. It was hectic and frankly he wanted nothing to do with any of his social media anymore.

Instead, he decides to listen to music. Ouma has never thought of himself as much of a music person, and with the circumstances he woke up with, the only true memories he has are the memories from the killing game. His interests are scarce and there was only so much the killing game memories can offer when he had only one focus, winning the game.

He hears the tune of a piano, instantly hit with a twisted nostalgia of the one who kickstarted the game.

He shouldn't think like that.

Browsing more, he decides to settle for something intense. He found himself getting lost in the distraction of sounds and words and soon found himself humming along, which soon turned to him singing some verses aloud, and it grew into a full on sing along with the lyrics. He lets his voice travel high and feels himself drenched in the raw emotion of the music.

Singing, was not something he ever did. In fact, even now his voice was scratchy from nonuse. He could not bring himself to care, though, as his voice raised high and was even starting to move his body. What came over him, he wasn't sure, but he was enjoying it, enjoying movement, enjoying a moment where he thought of nothing else but the words and the beat.

In the midst of his strange newfound energy, a harsh turn of his apartment door knob, he had forgotten to lock it after he came home with exhausted legs and labored breaths.

"Hey, can you please shut up? You do have neighbors you kn-"

As the song finishes, Ouma turns to the door, wondering about how familar the voice sounds, and the sudden cut off of their voice. His eyes widen, and all he can do is stare in shock at someone he completely dreaded seeing right now.

Within the doorway, Harukawa Maki stands with an expression of utter surprise, finding her with eyes as wide as his. The silence stretches as they both look right into each other's eyes, waiting, watching, studying.

"Ouma."

He tenses briefly.

"Harukawa-chan."

The atmosphere was densely awkward, but after a while they both relaxed. Ouma wondered, she hasn't attacked me yet. It was weird to see her so apprehensive yet at the same time not ready to glare into him until he melted or something.

"You're not trying to strangle me!" He says in an overexaggerated surprised tone.

Harukawa's shoulders twitched, almost as if she was trying not to laugh. It was weird. It was a strange gesture. Almost..a friendly one. In that moment, he tried to guess the kind of reflecting the girl had done in the year they didn't see each other. He noticed that her hair didn't have those scrunchies in them, and her hair fell flat all the way to her feet. Ouma could tell she took care of herself just as much as he did.

"Well...don't just stand there."

He hopes the subtle invitation doesn't go over her head. Luckily, she complies, quietly walking in, shutting the door slowly shut behind her. Ouma remembers the killing game. The poison. The press. Momota. Arrows. A glare spilling killing intent looking directly into his eyes.

He knows that he's made his own decision about the other participants. It was much easier to be angry at each other, to be angry at the ones who killed, the ones who never stopped killing. Harukawa, who continued to be dead set on killing even after he revealed he was the "mastermind." Though, even after the crippling tensions of the game, he knew one thing they all had in common. They hated Team Danganronpa. Even in their own volition they had volunteered, for many different reasons, they knew what they had gone through would haunt them for a long time.

This weak link connected him and Harukawa, just a little, in that moment.

Ouma finds himself guiding her to the counter, and searches for mugs in preperation of making coffee. He knows both of their eating habits arn't the best, but each participant of the game has every right. His mixed feelings for her are probably the same as hers, and yet she sits on the stool nervously as if she's just a shy girl in an unfamilar home. The same girl who had strangled him in front of everyone, the same girl who had poisoned him with an arrow. The same girl who had hated him the most out of all of them.

He wonders, distantly, how they could possibly patch up memories like that. Ouma begins boiling water before turning back to her. Harukawa stares intently into the counter, struggling to get a word out. Perhaps she was trying to apologize, and couldn't get it out?

He was just as much of a mess during that game as she was, both with unwashable blood on their hands. Yet, she stepped into his apartment. He had guessed she'd predictedly charge at him, yell at him, anything. The purple haired boy decided to get the ball rolling in her stead. "So....how come I've only just now found out you lived right next to me!" He easily chirped.

She looked relieved of not having to touch the sensitive subject of what she did in the killing game. "It's strange. I've never seen you. Not in the hallway, and not even when you come into the complex. And of course the only time I do see you is when you're blasting music and singing your heart out at 7 at night." She jokes.

The odd attempt at banter from Harukawa catches him off guard. It almost bothers him, this newfound attitude. It's as if he wasn't completely responsible for Gonta's death. As if he hadn't hurt so many people in the process for a means that didn't even matter. The gesture, though, may have a different meaning.

I remember what we've done.

I'm giving us another chance.

All he has to do is respond, and they'll both understand. He hears the teapot whistle, and runs over to turn the oven off. After pouring in the hot water, and placing the coffee grinds in each mug, he stirs absently. Ouma finds the voice in him once again. "I've been picking up some new hobbies! Things like singing and sun hat collecting. Did you know I also hand out ice cream?" Grinning, Ouma looks straight into her eyes this time. "Do you take yours with sugar?"

The ex assassin relaxes. In fact, he shouldn't even call her an assassin in the first place. She was one of survivors of the killing game, to his knowledge. When he woke up, the nurse had asked him if he wanted to see the rest of the season. He wondered for a moment if it would be best if he didn't, but he couldn't stop the curiousity, if what he did had at least done something. Who survived, he wanted to know the most. Everyone was gone around the time he woke up, with only Momota and Shirogane remaining. They had resolved not to talk to each other, and not to him. So, he figured he'd just have to watch what happened.

Three survivors.

He was certainly astonished in that moment. Not in a very good way.

He understood why Momota wasn't talking to her.

The silence did not only extend to those three, though. Apparently every participant had gone their seperate ways. It seemed they truly didn't want anything to do with each other. Ouma thought this was for the best.

Yet...

He wondered if that was really true.

Harukawa brings him back from his thoughts. "No sugar. Ice cream? So that's you out there with that cart..." Her mind seems to have wandered. "...The sun hat was a nice touch." He can tell she's definitely not great at people. Though, she is trying. Her tone isn't cold, and she's only a little bit awkward. This Harukawa is truly a stark contrast to the one from the killing game. It was a welcoming change.

Ouma happily complied, grabbing the two mugs, not before dumping ten teaspoons of sugar into his own, and handed one to her. "I knew it was cute! I knew it! The ribbon really pulled it all together, didn't it!" His excitement dies down as he acknowledges Harukawa's silent plea for a truce. They don't need to talk about what happened in the killing game, not now. They had agreed to start off on another foot, another time. While thinking this, he knew that it wasn't a definite ticket out. His deep rooted paranoia wouldn't go away, he'd still have nightmares, he would still feel sensations, feelings, what it was like to be crushed--

"How about this." Ouma starts. "Tomorrow, I take you out with me on my ice cream job, we spend the day together. How's that?" He says, surprisngly eager at the thought of it. Harukawa's surprised too, as he notices her eyes slightly widen at the invitation.

 

"..I'd like that."

 

×

 

It takes almost a month to find Saihara.

Harukawa gives Ouma the run down of what happened after the survivors had woken up. When they had woken up, an almost tangible tension had filled the atmosphere. It made sense, as they were abruptly teared away from their makeshift happy ending, and had woken up to a white and dull nonexistant sky. It made for a very empty feeling. The empty money, the empty people they woke up to, the empty reassurances from a therapist who would never understand what it was like. He understands why they decided it'd be better if they went their seperate ways. Harukawa explained a certain fight the three had, the deciding factor of their choice. The tensions were high, panic was evident as each person who had died woke up. He understood everyone after them had subconsciously agreed to have nothing to do with each other. Everyone was torn apart after waking up, and he was testement to that, as it took an agonizingly long year to even be able to think about picking himself up.

Harukawa had told him that she wanted to be back with her fellow survivors again. With every participant actively avoiding social media and social contact in general, it was going to be a lot harder to track them down. He figured they were top priority, as she survived with them. But he had to wonder, surely the old Harukawa would've made a beeline to Momota. He guessed that she wasn't ready to face him again after what happened in the killing game. With Saihara, this encounter would surely be easier to go through. Ouma's thoughts are proven correct when Harukawa suggests they find Saihara first.

Saihara.

He won't try to hide it. During the killing game, he had simply fallen in love with the detective.

He was unpredictable. In the end, even Ouma never really knew if he could trust him. Never being able to figure Saihara out was the thrill of being around him. In Ouma's mind, he was a truly interesting person. He also knew out of everyone, the detective seemed to be the only person who wanted to solve the mystery of Ouma. He wanted to figure out Ouma just as much as Ouma wanted to figure out Saihara. Saihara was curious. Curious about him. He loved that.

It had taken way too much time to figure out where Saihara had run off to, and the results that came about from that were, well, unexpected. As expected of Saihara.

Where Ouma and Harukawa had settled for a random apartment in a random spot, the detective settled for a choice much more...isolating. Located on the outskirts of a town unheard of, a single house stands near a cliff. It was a lonely sight, to say the least. For some reason, he had imagined Saihara surrounded by every partipant with love and praise. He wondered how the fight between the three went down. As he watched the game, their final moments were special, meaningful. Harukawa refused to elaborate other than being vague and saying it happened.

He had also gotten stuck with the task of actually going in there, talking to Saihara, and ensuring he doesn't crawl right back in the perfect shell he had made for himself. It was a weight on his back, but found he didn't mind.

"What? Me? You think Saihara-chan wants to see me?"

"I don't think I'm someone he'd really want to talk to right now."

"Right, you're scary!"

"Just do your thing. I'm heading back to that town."

Harukawa trusts him with Saihara. Or maybe she just doesn't trust herself at all. Ouma approaches the almost inimidating door of the lonely home, collects himself, and knocks on the door a few times.

No response.

He tries again.

No response.

Again.

Nothing.

He wonders, vaguely, if their roles have been reversed. Getting impatient, he fishes out something he hasn't bothered to use in a while. His lock picking tools. The game had set him up to use the skill multiple times. In thinking he had won over the mastermind with the few small tricks under his sleeve, he was set up for the inevitable defeat in the end. It bothered him to have to use it here, but he knew that he was adept at lockpicking even before the killing game. It was the only thing he knew about who he was before the game. He hadn't bothered to dig through his social media anymore, only knowing of the post which he described his acceptance into Danganronpa's new season.

He and Harukawa arrived here very early, the purpose being that it would be easier to catch Saihara alone with no interruptions. The location was a good one, he knew that even without the time, the place would still be deserted. Though they still took the precaution. Disguises here would just make the meeting less.. meaningful.

He digs the tools out, and works his magic. Within a few minutes, the click of the lock is loud and clear. With a small victory dance, he puts his tools away. Slowly, he grabs the knob and opens the door with a slight creak. A lonesome kitchen greets him immediately. A table sits to the right of the sink, where Saihara would eat. So he wasn't here or he was still sleeping. That's fine, Ouma thinks.

He rummages through Saihara's cupboards to ensure he actually eats something, and is pleased when he's greeted with just a bit more food than Ouma kept at his place. He wonders...how would Saihara like a breakfast all ready for him? Ouma decides something simple will do, after all, eating a heavy meal when you normally eat light might just make Saihara sick! He grabs eggs from the fridge, and a loaf of bread from the cupboard. He decides he could do something as simple as french toast, right?

He finishes his breakfast for Saihara, and also makes one for himself. He places two plates on the lonesome table, and sits down, waiting patiently. After an hour or so, he hears a faint creak in the wood, and suddenly springs up from his near sleep, attentive and awake. Grabbing a fork and getting ready, he nonchalantly starts eating his food, as if he lived in the house himself.

Tired eyes stare into him, as the figure stops at the end of the stairs to observe the smaller boy. The silence is just as painful as the first time Ouma met Harukawa. The dull, muddy color of Saihara's once shimmering golden eyes is the first observation he makes. Instead of saying anything, Saihara stares at Ouma a little bit more, before he subtly nods and heads his way to the table. Quietly, he pulls the chair back for himself, and sits down.

Saihara takes a bite of his food, and the silence stretches on. Ouma wonders how stubborn the detective can be. Yet, he doesn't want to break the silence. In a way it was almost calm. They eat in a surprisngly comfortable silence, like a couple happily married. When their meal comes to completion, Ouma gently takes the plates on the table, putting them in the sink. After a beat, he realizes this is his chance.

"Good morning."

"....."

He uses this moment to really take Saihara in. He's wearing a drab t-shirt and dull grey sweats. He can see the bags under his eyes, as well. His beloved standing right before him was the epitome of miserable. Though, if he's spent this year sitting all alone in this confining and stuffy home, it was no wonder he looked, well, like absolute shit.

"...Did you make that?"

So even Saihara hadn't used his voice in a long time. The scratchiness of it makes Ouma's heart ache, just for a little. With a bright grin, Ouma busies himself with scrubbing the dishes for the detective.

"Alllll by myself, by the way. I'm no expert in cooking, but it was decent. Did you like it?"

The eagerness he asked that question with was a little much. He supposed, his feelings for the taller boy in the killing game hadn't wavered in the slightest. His grin grows just a little bit more as he listens to Saihara's voice.

"...It was good. You came all the way here?"

"Only for you."

The completely impulsive answer had tumbled straight out of Ouma's mouth.

The detective lets out a shuddering breath, as if he was cold, or tired, or anxiety ridden. Ouma realized that it was actually him laughing. For some reason, the killing game had slipped Ouma's mind completely. In that moment, all he could see was Shuichi Saihara. He turned around, done with the dishes, allowing himself a gentle smile he didn't think he was capable of. It was overwhelming. It was only one year. One year.

Saihara shared the feeling as well it seemed.

Quietly, he hears. "I'm glad you came here for me."

It was odd to think of the silent agreement to completely ignore each other. Who else had gone through the killing game with them? No one but each other. Little by little, they could repair the damage. They could give each other what they needed. The unresolved tensions could be sorted out, the pain could be shared.

The realizaton was silent between them, and Ouma asked Saihara if he could join him with a friend.

"Okay."

The muddy yellow lightened. Slightly, slowly, yet it still lightened.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the ending is half assed i didnt know what to do before falling asleepf...
> 
> dies . .
> 
> some things though  
> 1) i hope i emphasized how trauma isnt something that goes away in 2 secomds  
> 2) everyone is trans and gay in this  
> 3) im sorry for making a big deal about the sun hat


End file.
